


enjoy it

by youcouldmakealife



Series: between the teeth [31]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6223150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s never really understood Jake, how he’s felt about him, but he knows if Jake won the Art Ross David wouldn’t have made that call. Jake’s a better person than him, though, the bigger man, literally and figuratively, and that’s something David’s known for awhile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	enjoy it

The Islanders clinch the seventh spot in the Eastern Conference, make the playoffs for the first time in six years. It’s the first time David has been able to look forward to postseason, view it as anything other than as a spectator, at least at NHL level. It’s almost as close to the wire as last year, when they were eliminated from contention in the final game of the season. This time they clinch it in the second to last game of the season. There are other games to play for many teams in the east, some of whom have a game in hand on them, but none of them can take that playoff spot away from them. Depending on if Boston wins or loses tomorrow, the Islanders could be seventh or eighth seed, but the important thing is that they win that second to last game. That they’re going to the playoffs.

David’s on the ice when the final buzzer goes, facing down an empty net. The team jumps off the bench, goes to mob Gregoire, and David follows after a moment.

“Many are saying the only reason the Islanders made the playoffs is because of your incredible run this season,” a reporter says after the game.

“The Islanders played hard for this spot,” David says. “It was a team effort.”

“You’re looking at the Art Ross—” the reporter continues.

“I’m not,” David interrupts. “There are more games to play this season, and it’s a tight race.”

“You’re currently in the lead—” the reporter says.

“It’s a very tight race,” David says, “And hockey players are capable of incredible things.”

The next morning, the sports news plays that clip repeatedly, like David said anything other than the obvious.

*

The final game of the season, David converts on a beautiful tape to tape pass from Bradley for the game winner, ends the season sitting four points in the lead for the Art Ross. Boucher has a game in hand, but he needs a five point night to take the lead, and he’s never had a five point night in his NHL career. He did with the Remparts — David played for the Remparts, half a decade behind him, David broke a few of his records — but they’re playing the Rangers, who David knows from bitter experience are extremely stingy defensively.

Oleg crashes into him for the celebration, half lifts David off his feet. "You fucking did it," he shouts into David's face.

"I don't--" David manages, breathless.

"Shut up, you fucking did it, you are amazing," Oleg says.

Oleg’s barely put him down when Bradley picks him up, not half off his feet but completely, even though Bradley only has an inch on David and might even weigh less. “Holy fuck,” he shouts. “Next you’re going to get the Cup winner.”

David frowns at him, and when he looks over at Oleg, Oleg is frowning too. 

“It isn’t even the playoffs yet,” David says, and then, “put me down!” which gets lost when Bradley nearly gets knocked over by the D.

*

The next morning David gets a call from Dave, who hadn’t emailed first, arranged a convenient time. David doesn’t know if he’s done that before, called out of the blue, and picks up the phone immediately, because if Dave’s calling, it must be important.

"I'm so fucking proud of you, kid," Dave says.

David feels himself go red all over. “I haven’t won yet,” he says.

“Like you’re not going to win,” Dave says, “Come on.”

“Dave,” David starts.

“And even if you don’t,” Dave says. “Which is un-fucking-likely, you’ve had a hell of a season, you have to know that.”

“I know,” David says.

“I know you don’t like it when I call you,” Dave says, and David frowns, because he’s never _told_ him that, “but you need to know how proud I am, okay? My wife’s mad because I woke the kids up cheering last night, you’re in trouble.”

“I’m in trouble?” David asks.

“She’ll get over it,” Dave says, like that’s the thing David focused on. “You’re a fucking superstar.”

“I just had a good season,” David mumbles.

“You had the _best_ season, don’t start with me,” Dave says. “And you made me look really fucking smart.”

“You are,” David says.

“Nah,” Dave says. “I just trusted you. Which was pretty smart, I guess, now that I think about it, but this was all you, David.”

“Thank you,” David says quietly. “For—”

“Don’t start thanking me,” Dave says. “You enjoy it, okay? You deserve it.”

“Okay,” David says.

“No bullshit, Chapman, you earned this, you made them all look like fucking morons for doubting you,” Dave says. “Promise me you’ll enjoy it.”

“I promise,” David says.

*

The Islanders are idle, the last day of the season, and David knows some guys are going out to celebrate getting to the playoffs, but David thinks that’s a little premature, a little irresponsible, celebrating before they’ve won a series, even won a _game_. He stays at home, watches the games that matter not to the Islanders but to him specifically.

_can i be your date to the awards? :)_ David gets from Kiro after the Lightning-Rangers game is over, and Boucher is held to one, landing four points behind David. If third place Muller gets six points in the Kansas City game he will tie David, but the first's over, the scoresheet's blank, and while getting six points in forty minutes isn't impossible, it isn't very likely. 

_I haven't won yet_ , David sends, anyway, because it's too early to call it a win.

Two hours later, Kansas City's been shut out -- David switched to it after the Tampa loss, white-knuckled, and was so thankful to Dallas for pulling out all the stops. They weren't going to the playoffs, but obviously didn't want to make it any easier for a divisional rival, and the regulation loss kept Kansas City from climbing up a seed. Kept Muller stalled six points behind.

Less than a minute after the horn, David gets two texts in short order, one from Jake, a _CONGRATS!!!_ and a bunch of emoticons, and another from Kiro, _NOW can i be your date to the awards?!_

Thank you, David sends to Jake, then pauses, frowning at Kiro's text. He imagines there'd be another seat filler, this time, pretty and uninterested, and it'd be awkward, cameras on him and her when the award was announced. It'd feel like a lie. And it's not like he can lose this, he's already won, this would just be the reception. He sends _It wouldn't be a date_ to Kiro after a minute.

_is that a yes?_ Kiro sends, and before David can respond in the positive, he's already sent two more. _LAS VEGAS BABY_ Kiro says, with an assortment of as many emoticons as Jake sent. _WERE GOING TO PARTY._

_We are not going to party_ , David sends back, smiling despite himself.

_PARTY. CALLED IT LOCKED IT CANT STOP IT._

David looks down at the text, slightly appalled. _I haven't heard that since I was ten._ He doesn't know who was immature enough to teach it to Kiro, but he imagines it was probably a teammate.

_Not enough Kiro in your life_ , Kiro responds, and then sends another string of emoticons David can’t puzzle out the meaning of.

He has a six pack in the fridge, towards the back, and goes to get himself a beer. He’s hardly going to go out and party like so many of his teammates were inclined to — it’s nudging up to midnight and he has an early day tomorrow now, because the Islanders publicist warned him that he’d be going on some local sports thing if he won the Art Ross, but celebration means a drink, so he cracks open a beer, figures he’ll go to bed after it’s done.

Jake calls him soon after his first sip. There’s noise in the background, the kind that means he’s probably out. The Panthers have nothing to celebrate, since once again they aren’t making the playoffs, but David supposes instead of celebration it’s commiseration. David’s never understood that — he understands the impulse to toast success, but he can’t see why it would extend to failure. 

“I know it’s late,” Jake says, when David answers. “but I figured you wouldn’t be sleeping yet.”

“I’m not,” David confirms, perhaps redundantly.

“I was watching the games,” Jake says. “People were a lot less confused when I cheered Tampa’s loss than when I cheered for Dallas.”

David laughs. “Sorry if anyone thinks you’re a Dallas fan now,” he says. 

“You should be,” Jake says. “I just — I know I said congrats, but holy shit, David.”

David bites down a smile.

“Seriously,” Jake says. “You’ve been so awesome to watch all season, you definitely deserve it.”

“Thank you,” David says.

“And thanks for beating that smug fucker Boucher,” Jake adds.

“Couldn’t let a Tampa player win,” David agrees.

“Damn straight,” Jake says. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it, but. You’re fucking awesome, you know that.”

“I know,” David says, just because he knows it will make Jake laugh. 

It does.

*

In bed, David thinks fleetingly about the Art Ross in comparison to the Calder, the competitive pool of hundreds rather than dozens, how much more meaningful it is — Calder is potential, Art Ross is the result of that potential. Jake may have won the Calder, but David doesn’t think his name’s ever going to be engraved on the Art Ross. Jake may have won the Calder, but his team missed the playoffs yet again, and the Islanders are staring it right in the face.

He shoves the thought down, feels petty and mean for it, but still a little happy about it nonetheless.

Jake congratulated him anyway, and he meant it, David knows he did, knows he’s happy that David won, that he’s happy that David made the playoffs. Jake can do that, can be happy for other people even when they beat him, and David doesn’t know how he does it, knows it’s not something he can do. There are a lot of things Jake can do that David cannot — win a Calder, for one, but also make friends everywhere he goes, effortless, get a room to listen to him, David assumes, since they made him captain, keep smiling when nothing’s going right. David doesn’t know if he’s envious of it or not. He would be about anyone else, angry about it, was with Jake at first, that everything for Jake was so _easy_. Now he’s not sure it is. 

He’s never really understood Jake, how he’s felt about him, but he knows if Jake won the Art Ross David wouldn’t have made that call. Jake’s a better person than him, though, the bigger man, literally and figuratively, and that’s something David’s known for awhile.

* 

David’s up by seven. Meets PR outside the locker room — thankfully it isn’t one of those interviews where he has to go sit in a studio, get make up put on, hair styled, sweat under the bright lights. Instead they want him to do some stuff on the ice, ‘Got any tricks?’ the cameraman asks, like he’s a dog, but David assumes he means the sort of drills they do in skills, and has to show off his stickhandling before he’s eaten breakfast.

They do the interview in his stall, which is nice, familiar, thankfully fairly short, ask him a lot of routine questions, and then one he hasn’t gotten yet, at least as anything other than speculation.

“How does it feel to win the Art Ross?” the interviewer asks.

“I don’t know yet,” David says, and everyone laughs, like he thought they might, even though all it is is the truth.

When David gets out of the interview he’s got a missed call, and he frowns. He doesn’t think he’s ever received as many calls as he has in the past few days, anything to do with media Dave and his assistant field first, or Isles PR does, which David appreciates. He expects it to be Dave, maybe deciding that now that he’s called David without bothering him, it’s fine to do it going forward.

It’s his mother, and he calls back immediately, resists the urge to ask if something is the matter when she answers, instead saying, “It’s David.”

He’s glad she called from her cell phone. Last time her assistant answered, voice superficially like his mother’s, and her response was “David who?”. For one second, David had been entirely sure his mother had forgotten he existed, and honestly, he didn’t feel much surprise.

“Oh good,” she says. “I called you earlier.”

“I know,” he doesn’t say. “That’s why I called,” another thing he doesn’t, along with “Yes, is something the matter?”

Instead, polite, he asks how she is, how the weather is, how work is. ‘Fine’ is the answer to all of his questions.

“I called you about the NHL Awards,” his mother says, once he’s exhausted the topics that feel safe, fallen uncomfortably silent.

“Oh,” David says.

"I can make room in my schedule if you'd like me to come to the Awards," his mother says. "I understand you'll be receiving one."

"I have a guest," David says. "But they make extra room in the back, if you'd like me to book some for you."

She’s quiet for a minute. “A girlfriend?” she asks.

David almost laughs, but honestly it’s not really funny. “No,” he says. “Just a friend. Do you want — should I speak to the coordinators?”

“That would be fine,” his mother says. 

“Okay,” David says. “I will do that, then.”

“Good,” his mother says, and then, “congratulations.”

“Thank you,” David says. “I appreciate it.”

*

The Awards are months away, the playoffs haven’t even started yet, but on the cab ride back to his apartment David starts thinking through what he should say in his speech.

He keeps starting with ‘thank you’, getting stalled there, wondering why, and then he realises, finally, that no one voted for him, that this isn’t the media, or his peers, or the institution acknowledging him, that this was something he did. With Oleg’s help, of course, Bradley’s, everyone else on the ice with him, but while he’d promised Dave earlier, he hadn’t really listened to him, to the _you made them all look like fucking morons for doubting you_ part of the ‘Enjoy it’. He promised then, automatic, because of course he’d enjoy it, he won the _Art Ross_ , but now he’s thinking about it.

It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks about him, whether they think it was just luck, a fluke, because he’s already secured it; they can’t take it from him. And he thinks, now, that the promise he made to Dave, the promise to enjoy it, that’s a promise he’s happy to keep.


End file.
